Secretly Smiling
by KyraAnnCoombes
Summary: With Fred gone, George is a mess. The Weasleys are taking turns going to his flat, making sure he hasn't done anything...well, you know.  Hermione can't stand going. She thought she had put her secret past with George behind her, until...
1. Prologue

Hermione looked around the table. The Burrow was still much more quiet than she remembered. _But that's only logical, _she thought, _seeing as the Weasley family had lost its most vivacious member_. Some mornings, Mrs. Weasley still set a place for Fred. Finally, Harry spoke.

"So...who will it be this morning? I've got to go in early, I promised Dean I would."

Percy adjusted his robes. "The Minister needs me to keep record of his meeting this morning, so it can't be me, either."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "I'm to be in that meeting as well. Molly?"

Molly shook her head, motioning towards Ginny. "We're going to the Lovegood's in a bit. And besides, I've been twice this week."

Ron looked down and poked at his eggs, clearly not volunteering himself. Clearing her throat, Hermione reluctantly spoke up. "I...I can go. I've only been twice, and it's my day off."

The Weasley family looked relieved. Going to George's flat to check up on him was no one's favorite duty. On the off chance that he was awake, he was in a drunken stupor, thundering about the rooms unshaven and in desperate need of a shower. None of them had the heart to scream at him to get his act together, either. And how could they? None of them knew what it was like to be George, to have lost half of themselves and be consumed by such powerful grief.

But Hermione had her own reasons for not wanting to go. Her history with George...well. No one knew about that, so she couldn't exactly use that as an excuse. She finished her breakfast quietly, taking her mostly empty plate to the kitchen and placing it into the sink, where the pots and pans were already washing themselves. She smiled at the efficiency of Mrs. Weasley's kitchen as the older woman walked in after her. Molly put a plate together, busying herself to hide her tears. Finally, she turned to Hermione.

"Here, love, take him this," she said, handing Hermione a heaping plate of breakfast. "I know it's been a while since you went to check up on him, but I went just the other day and he was awake and he recognized me and.." Mrs. Weasley let the sentence trail off, wiping her warm brown eyes on the corner of her robe. Hermione hugged the motherly witch with the arm that wasn't responsible for the plate.

"I'm sure he's getting much better, Mrs. Weasley. Maybe in a few months he could reopen the shop and everything," she said, smiling warmly. "If he's awake, I'll ask him about moving back in."

Mrs. Weasley took Hermione's face in her soft hands and kissed her cheek. "You're such a dear, Hermione. If you'd like, you can join us at the Lovegood's when you get back. If not, there's some of last night's dinner left over for lunch, and I've just done your laundry, and-"

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione laughed. "I'll probably go over to Luna's, but don't worry about me if I don't. I'm going to go take this to George now, okay?" She pulled out of Mrs. Weasley's arms and began walking towards the fireplace. Molly called out a last goodbye as Hermione grabbed a pinch of Floo powder with her free hand. She threw it into the fireplace and stepped into the emerald flames, half-shouting, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!"

* * *

><p>Hermione stepped out of George's fireplace. The flat was dark. Papers were strewn about the floor, and she stepped on at least three fake wands. Stains spotted the carpet, and there were empty bottles of firewhisky and Muggle alcohol in all of the rooms. It was enough to make her tear up. She placed the plate of food on the table, stepped into George's room and found the bed empty. <em>Not surprising, <em>she mused,_ he wasn't here the last two times, either._ The first time Hermione had been to the flat to check on George, he was slumped on the floor of the living room, half-leaning against the sofa. Hermione had levitated him back into his bed and kissed his forehead before she left, tears streaming down her face. The second time, he was in Fred's room, lying broken on a mountain of Fred's old things. Again, she had levitated him back into his bed and kissed the crown of his head, crying. But today would be different.

She walked gingerly across the hall into Fred's room. At least George had made it to the bed this time. She smoothed his hair and pulled out her wand, whispering "Ennervate!" at his limp form.

George blinked once and rolled over. "Go away, Mum, we'll be down in a minute," he mumbled. Hermione groaned. She knew it would be difficult, but for him to not even recognize where or –when- he was...

"I'm not your mother, George," she said softly, "but she's worried about you. We all are. Will you please get up?"

"Shove off, Ginny," he grumbled. "You've about a million other brothers to bother."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Are you going to go through all the women in your life before you finally guess who I am, or will you open your eyes and get it through your thick, miserable skull that it's me?" She eyed him nervously. None of the family's coddling had had any effect on George in the weeks since Fred's funeral, so she was trying something new. She just hoped she didn't hurt him; he was going through enough as it was.

For now, at least, it was working. "Oh. It's you," George sat up. "Where am I?" He rubbed his head, looking around the room.

"I think a more appropriate question is –when- are you, George. Do you know what day it is? What month?" Hermione bit her lip, worried. He had been so fragile recently that anything could send him over the edge.

And then, just as she had thought it, it happened. George's eyes shot open and his face fell. He looked to Hermione, desperate. "N-no... Hermione, no, please tell me...I'm not...he's not...Oh, Freddie!"

Hermione sank down onto the bed and put a hand on his arm. "George, we're worried about you. Everyone is. When was the last time you left the house? Or showered? Or even..." she touched his face, "...shaved? Please, George, get up. Your mum packed you some breakfast, it's sitting on the table in the kitchen..."

She was almost certain he couldn't even hear her. He was shaking his head repeatedly and his eyes were filling up with tears. Knowing full well that her wand couldn't help her while he was awake and upset, Hermione stood. She put her arms around George as best she could, ignoring the flush rising to her cheeks and the memories that bubbled to the surface of her mind. "Wha-" George looked up, shocked. Hermione eventually got him up and standing, despite his being over 8 inches taller than her and a good 60 pounds heavier.

"It's about damned time," she murmured. "Come on. We're going to the kitchen."

They didn't get there. George leaned one hand against the wall to steady himself, trapping Hermione between his body and the wall. Tears were falling down his face and onto hers as she looked up at him with concern. In the 7 years that she'd known him, she had never seen him cry. Without his other half, he had turned inward. In the aftermath of the battle, at the funeral, in his weeks alone at his flat, he had receded into himself. At times, he reminded Hermione of what she had read about prisoners who had received the Dementor's Kiss, who became empty shells without their souls. But here he was, crying. His knees gave out and he spoke as Hermione kneeled down next to him.

"What do I do, Hermione? My whole life he's been right there and now... I can't even finish my fucking sentences! It's pathetic, I wish I'd died with him, I really do." Hermione didn't know what to do. She took him into his arms like a child and let him weep. "I'm all alone now. Fr-Fred's gone, and, and it's just me that's left!" He was choking on his tears, and Hermione had begun to cry as well. "Why don't you love me anymore, Hermione?"

**A/N:**_ Obviously, there's a past to be uncovered here. And some unresolved feelings. The next chapter will be a flashback to their mysterious past, and the next after that will be another from the present. Does that make sense? It does in my head. Enjoy!_


	2. Hermione's First Kiss

_Hermione's first kiss came during Christmastime in her third year. Sirius Black was on the loose and Dementors were looming at the edge of the school grounds._

Her schedule was ridiculous. That much, at least, Hermione could admit to herself. At fourteen, she was using a Time-Turner, something that most fully-grown wizards aren't even qualified to do (although it was so dangerous that most who did qualify didn't bother). And the workload was so grueling that sometimes she'd end up spinning the Time-Turner two or three times, with one of her working in the Common Room, one in the Library, and one out by the lake. It was a complete wonder that she hadn't been caught. It wasn't even Christmas yet, and she knew Harry and Ron were getting suspicious. _Although it's not as if I've the time to worry about that, _she reminded herself.

The clock in the Common Room showed that it was 20 past 1 o clock in the morning. Hermione rubbed her eyes and looked around. The fire was reduced to little more than embers, and the low light was making any further study impossible. _That won't do,_ she thought, looking down onto her papers, _I've still another 6 inches to get done on this tonight, plus reading for Divination (what nonsense) and Charms..._ She stood and pointed her wand towards the fire, whispering a spell to kindle more flames. As the Common room filled back up with light and warmth, she noticed that the Christmas decorations had already been put up. _When did that happen? _Hermione wondered. She thought back on to her evening. _Of course! I must have fallen asleep here. No wonder my essay isn't finished. That was rather silly of me, but of course now that I've slept it should be no problem to stay awake and finish it, right? _Hermione stifled a yawn and bent back over her parchment. Her quill was hovering above the top of the page as she struggled to remember the definition of "eihwaz" when she heard it. At nearly 1:30 in the morning, someone else was in the Common Room. Hermione dropped her quill, splattering ink across her half-finished essay. Cursing under her breath, she tried to vanish the extra ink while she looked around to see who could possibly still be in the Common Room at this hour. She knew it wasn't Harry or Ron...but she had stopped paying attention to who came and went after those two had gone to bed.

Her eyes found a sofa off to the side of the room, on which she could barely detect a breathing body. Stocky, muscular build, at least a 4th year, but probably older...finally, her gaze settled on the mop of messy red hair. _A Weasley? _She thought, _More specifically, Fred. Or George. _Hermione hadn't yet learned to tell the twins apart. And even if she could, at this distance and in this light it was impossible. She stood nervously and crossed the room, walking towards the couch and the sleeping twin. He was smiling softly in his sleep. _Well, when are they ever –not- smiling? _Hermione mused. She had to admit, the twins were funny, charming, and much smarter than they let on. They had been the life of the Gryffindor Common Room for the two and a half years that she had thus far called it home. _And, _she begrudgingly admitted, _really sort of attractive._

Whichever twin it was stirred on the couch. Hermione gasped and jumped back, surprised, but regained calm when Twin didn't wake. _No less than I deserved, standing here and watching him sleep. I should probably wake him up though, at the very least so I can get back to my work._ Before she was really sure what she was doing, Hermione found herself shaking Twin gently. "Hey, you. Wake up; it's 1:30. You really should get to bed. Honestly, why are you still out here? Everyone else went to bed hours ago!"

He blinked groggily and spoke "Wish you had. Then you wouldn't be waking me up and asking me a million bloody questions." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "'F it's as late as you say it is, why are you still...don't tell me, studying?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "As a matter of fact, I was, and I intend to continue. It would be much easier if I didn't have to play babysitter to a lazy 5th year who should probably be studying, himself!"

He groaned and leaned his head back against the sofa. "You never stop this, do you?"

"For your information, I do not, and it would do you and your twin a lot of good to take a page out of my book! You're too brilliant to be wasting yourselves of petty jokes and..." Hermione stopped. He was raising a brow at her, and she wanted to know why. "What?" She demanded.

"My twin?" He laughed, "You don't know which one I am, do you?"

Hermione blushed, stammering, "Of course I...well, it's dark, you see...It's really quite obvious that you're...well you're both so..."

He laughed at her through her miserable attempt to convince him that she knew which twin he was, and then held a single up to her lips, silencing her. He could see her blushing crimson in the light of the fire as he thought; _Let's have some fun with this, shall we?_ He pointed with his free hand to the boughs of mistletoe that hung from the ceiling.

Mortified, Hermione looked at the ceiling, and then back to the twin, who stood to face her. "Stop smiling like that! I know you must be about to do something awful. What are you pointing to those things for?" She was panicking, falling apart, and he knew it. _He doesn't just know, he's bloody enjoying it! Oh, I don't know what he's doing... Look at him; standing there with his arms crossed like he knows something I don't..._her mind was racing, her heart was pounding, and she couldn't stand the way he was looking at her. It made her face uncomfortably hot, and there was no logic or reason behind it. _Oh, why can't Mrs. Weasley have already sent them their sweaters? _ Her eyes searched anywhere but his face for some kind of indication of whether he was Fred or George. She remembered what she'd read about twins and repeated it in her mind. _Twins, even identical ones, have subtle differences. One may be taller than the other, or have a slightly deeper voice...Their hair might lay differently, they could have scars or birthmarks their double didn't...But all of that is completely useless when I haven't the other one to compare to!_ She hadn't realized she was hyperventilating.

The twin laughed yet again and rested a hand on her hip. Hermione blinked, her eyes wide, and looked up at him. Slowly and deliberately, he leaned into her and planted a soft, warm kiss on her lips.

Hermione was so shocked that she let it happen for half a second before she got a hold of herself and pulled away, gasping for air and blushing crimson. She wanted to turn, to run, to bury herself in a book until things made sense again, but his hand was still on her hip and his eyes were still boring into her. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "I'm exhausted. I would love to go upstairs and to sleep, but refuse to unless you go to bed, yourself."

"But I simply can't! I've Ancient Runes to finish and Charms to study and Divination to read for and-"

"And a dashingly handsome wizard to dream about," he winked.

Hermione looked like she was about to fall over. He put a hand on her shoulder and said, "You're going to bed now," before flicking his wand at her books and folding them up. "S'not the neatest job, but it'll do." He walked over and picked the books up, handing them to a still-frozen Hermione. Much to her horror, she remembered where she was and what had just happened. Blushing furiously, she was too embarrassed for words as he pushed lightly on her lower back, guiding her towards the stairs to the girl's dormitories. Rather mechanically, she stepped up the stairs and quietly into her room, setting her books down by her bed. She shrugged off her cloak and her shoes and climbed into the bed, too overwhelmed with what had just happened to bother changing out of her uniform.


	3. Broken at the Burrow

**A/N: **_I know, I've had you all waiting forever! Things have been really crazy for me. This Geormione fic has suffered at the hand of the one I'm writing with my friend Sami (see my profile for that one), and the end of the summer is here and in about 10 hours I leave for my first year of college, so things for me have been beyond hectic. On top of that, I've been struck by the most appalling writer's block. Anyways, I finally got this chapter out and I'm pretty well pleased with it. It picks up right where the prologue left off, so take a look and enjoy! Don't forget to review, it motivates me to keep writing._

"Don't...George, please, now isn't the time, really. That's...that's the past, and this is now, and things are..." But it was no use. He had shut her out again, which was probably for the best. Hermione's stomach felt like it was boiling over with a noxious potion. She pulled away from George as much as she could, pressing her temple against the wall and blinking back tear.

They sat there, worlds apart even though there were only inches between them. Hermione didn't know how much time had passed before she finally dried her eyes and looked over at George. He was asleep again, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest reminded Hermione of a night years ago in the Gryffindor Common Room. _If it was him, that is, _she smiled to herself at the memory. Even after she could tell the twins apart as second nature, even in the hundreds of opportunities she'd had to ask George (and the dozen or so she'd had to ask Fred), Hermione had never once confirmed which twin had kissed her that night. After a few months, she had even stopped wondering.

But that was so long ago. She turned slowly, until she was facing George completely. Then she did something that surprised her. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she took him into her arms like the overgrown child he used to be and answered the question that'd been tearing her apart since he asked it in his traumatized stupor. "I don't think I ever stopped, George," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

George stirred gently in his sleep. Hermione shifted her self out from where he had her pinned against the wall, laying his head where hers had been only moments before. She stood and left the room, drying her eyes once more.

* * *

><p>Blinking, George sat up. For the first time in what felt like years, he was smiling. It was a cruel trick to play on Hermione, to be sure, but he didn't regret it in the slightest. He reached across the floor until he found something soft and picked it up. It was a Weasley sweater, magenta, with a big purple "F" on the chest. Molly had knitted them last Christmas, when they were all holed up at Auntie Muriel's. They were the exact color of the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes employee robes. His own was in his wardrobe, but it was Fred's he was looking for. "Did you hear that, Freddie?" he mumbled, burying his face in the sweater. "She still loves me. I need her, Freddie, I do."<p>

* * *

><p>Hermione cleaned. She scrubbed and she wiped and she vanished messes and she threw things away and did anything she could to distract herself from what she had just said. <em>What was I thinking? <em>She berated herself. _What if he'd heard? He's already so fragile, there's simply no telling what that could do to him..._ "Or what it's doing to me," she whispered in a small voice. Hermione didn't even know why she'd said it, or if it was true. What had happened between them...they were only children then, and so many things were different now... When the flat was scrubbed beyond all recognition, she opened the package Mrs. Weasley had sent her with, storing the food in the mostly empty cupboards. Hermione tried to convince herself that it was only out of friendly concern that she was standing in George Weasley's kitchen, making him food. Merlin only knew when the last time had eaten was, because the last few people sent to check on him (Ron, Harry, and Arthur) hadn't done much, as evidenced by the squalor.

Hermione tried to tell herself that just because George had been her first love didn't mean that there was still anything between them, and that she'd only said what she had in the room because she was stressed and upset. She repeated all of this to herself as she made George's lunch, but she wasn't sure if she believed it or not.

When she went to get him, his face was buried in one of Fred's old sweaters. "George?" she said softly, not wanting to startle him. She had read that people who experienced a great trauma could sometimes suffer from flashbacks triggered by surprise or special memories.

He didn't answer.

"George, I'm coming in," she spoke slowly, entering the room. "I've made you some lunch, and you should really think about eating. I've also cleaned the kitchen and emptied the cupboards…" she trailed off, afraid to overwhelm him.

George moved his head slowly. His eyes were peeking over the top of Fred's sweater, and he was cautiously watching Hermione.

"It's in the kitchen, come on," she said, holding out a hand. George reluctantly shoved the sweater aside and stood mechanically, taking Hermione's hand. He remembered how natural it had felt; the first time he held her hand. For a moment, he was no longer a broken and wretched 20-year-old. He was 16 again. George could almost feel the red and gold tie hanging loosely around the collar of his school shirt as he reached out and took what he remembered as her small and ink-stained hand into his own. Then it ended. He blinked, and he was in his kitchen. His…almost unnaturally clean kitchen. He looked to Hermione, who had just pulled her hand from his. She was standing next to him, looking to the floor. She wasn't blushing or smiling like she had been a moment before in his memory, but her troubled and tear-stained face was still beautiful to him. "Did you…?" he asked, hating how weak he sounded.

Hermione nodded. "The whole flat. Everything but Fr-but were you were," she said quickly.

"Oh." George didn't have the energy to say anything else as he sat at his shining table, the large sandwich Hermione had prepared sitting before him. He stared at it. It'd been so long since he'd properly eaten that he'd nearly forgotten what to do with food. Usually, when the family came to check on him, they'd make him something and leave it out, where it would grow stale and inedible. They hardly ever stayed and forced him.

"You don't mean to tell me that a Weasley's forgotten how to eat, do you?" Hermione was trying to joke, even though the sight of her gaunt and slovenly former love in front of her was terrifying. _It's what Fred (an the old George) would have done,_ she told herself. George picked the sandwich up awkwardly and bit at a corner of it.

Hermione spoke while he ate. "Your mother has asked me to ask –you- about coming back to the Burrow."

George continued without responding. _Living here's hard enough,_ he thought dimly, _But going back to the Burrow would be impossible._

"Right. Well then," she sighed, leaning against the counter and wishing desperately that she'd left something to be cleaned. When she looked back at him, he'd finished eating. Half of the sandwich was untouched, but the sad and faraway look in George's eyes told Hermione he had finished. She took his plate, washed and dried it by hand, and put it away. When she turned back towards him, she saw that he hadn't moved. It was unnerving; too much to bear. Hermione had to get out. She walked over to him. "I'm going back the Burrow now," she said quietly. "You should probably shower and put on clean clothes."

Unexpectedly, George stood. Like a complete gentleman, like there was nothing wrong with him, he walked Hermione to the center of the living room.

"Oh, George!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

A younger, happier, more complete George would've leaned down and kissed Hermione Granger like he'd done hundreds of times before, but this George couldn't.

"Thank you," she whispered. She took a step back and Disapparated, leaving him alone yet again.

* * *

><p>Hermione was curled up in a chair too close to the fire at the Burrow. She certainly didn't feel like going over to the Lovegood's; as nice as Luna was, she and her father's fascination with psuedomagic tried Hermione's patience on the best of days. The sound of heavy footsteps in the stairway startled her, and she turned sharply to see whom they belonged to.<p>

Ron was standing awkwardly at the base of the stairs. "Hey," he said, looking over to her.

"I thought you'd gone to work, with the others?" Hermione asked.

"Nah. Harry didn't have to go in, either, but Dean and Seamus needed his help on something. And you know how he is, can't say no. Works harder than half the Hufflepuffs I know," he joked, walking over to behind Hermione's chair. He kissed her neck, adding, "Besides, I figured since it's both our days off, we could…spend some time together."

Hermione pulled away from him. "Why didn't you volunteer to go see George?" she demanded weakly. "I had assumed, from your silence at breakfast, that you had obligations in the office as the oth-"

Ron cut her off. "I can't stand seeing him like that," he said sheepishly. "He's my brother, I've never seen him so…" he shook his head, at a loss for words.

"And you think it's very easy for me?" she inquired coldly. "He…for 8 years he and Fred were…George is like a brother to me, too!" she lied, "It hurts me just as much as it hurts you, Ronald!" Hermione shrieked, tears streaming down her face for the umpteenth time that morning. That part, at least, was true. In all honesty, it might have even hurt her more, but no one could know that.

Ron was completely out of his element. His own grief was difficult enough to deal with, but he had managed to shove it down deep inside of him, burying his sadness and rage and frustration deep inside of him. They lay with the visions that had come from the inside of Salazar Slytherin's locket, But to see the raw emotion playing across Hermione's face was to hiss the words that opened the locket and uncover it all, to tear open wounds he had so carefully sewn shut. He didn't know what to do. How could he fix Hermione if he couldn't fix himself?

"Is there anything I can do…?" he offered, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and fixing his eyes firmly on the ground.

"No," she said simply and honestly.

Ron nodded and went into the kitchen.

Hermione sighed as he left. In some way or another, she'd been fighting Voldemort along with Ron and Harry since she was 11 years old. Her entire adolescence had been stolen from her, swallowed by the war. Now that the fighting had finally ended, people kept talking about how things could finally "return to normal," but what about the lost generation? What about the young people, from Percy Weasley down to little Dennis Creevey, for whom the war was the only normal they knew?

Hermione simply didn't know how to function in a peaceful world. It was why she still had made no attempt to track down her parents and reverse the Memory Charm she'd placed on them the year before. It was why things weren't right with anything in her life now. She was supposed to be in this perfect relationship with her best friend, like Molly and Arthur or Bill and Fleur. In the first days after the Battle, after their very public and passionate kiss, everyone had congratulated Ron and Hermione. Things grew quiet, but they told themselves that they had only needed time to adjust to the new, slower pace of things. But it was August now. 3 months had passed, and Hermione was beginning to have doubts. It wasn't the same for her and Ron as it was for Harry and Ginny. The Boy Who Lived and the Girl He Loved, the Chosen One and his Chosen One, seemed to be perfectly in love. They were neither desperately clingy nor awkwardly distant. The rebuilding and recovery efforts truly brought out the best in the young lovers, and every passing day made it clearer that they were meant for each other. Their relationship transitioned wonderfully from the desperate pressure of combat to the calm but tired and sad reconstruction of their world, and would probably transition just fine to whatever came after.

As she watched her other two best friends grow happy and fall deeply in love, she thought less and less of Ronald, and more and more of George.


	4. An Unexpected Dinner And Guest

By the start of spring, Hermione had stopped wondering which twin had kissed her. Obviously it was some plan of the both of theirs designed to get a reaction from her, and she simply refused to grant them that pleasure. Besides, she had much bigger things to worry about, like the fact that one of You-Know-Who's most loyal supporters was still on the loose and that Harry was in danger, or that she was already behind on her exam studying schedule. Oh, and Ronald wasn't speaking with her, either, but his immaturity was just one more thing she didn't have time for. If it wasn't for Percy's ardent love of rules and order, Hermione might have given up on the entire Weasley family.

But just because she wasn't curious didn't mean she could forget what had happened. No, she still blushed crimson every time one or the both of them was in the Common Room or at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

It amused the twins to no end to see the normally poised and collected Hermione go to pieces around them. They both knew about the kiss before Christmas, but they were giving poor Hermione no acknowledgment of the fact that they did. Of course, it only took Hermione a week after the…event…to learn to tell the difference between Fred and George, but she refused to let herself cross-examine her memory to look for an answer as to which boy had half-snogged her in the Common Room that night.

On some particularly dark and exhausting days, Hermione wondered to herself if she'd just imagined all of it. She was lost in this particularly embarrassing train of thought one evening towards the end of winter. Bent over her Divination text and scribbling eagerly in a dream journal, she didn't notice the last few Gryffindor students making their way down to dinner. Harry had learned to stop expecting her at every meal as her workload weighed ever more heavily upon her, and Ron was trying as hard as he could not to care about where Hermione was, the loss of Scabbers still stinging. Bleary eyed, Hermione trudged dutifully on, recording dream after dream. _Not __**all**__ of them, though_. She tried to shake the thought away, but it persisted. _I see you've conveniently skipped over the dreams about crackling fires and redheads…_ "Stop!" she scolded herself out loud, drawing curious glances from the few Seventh Years studying in other chairs across the room. "Sorry," she muttered, cheeks red.

"You know," a voice behind her said, "I've never apologized for shouting in the Common Room."

She jumped, but bent stiffly back over her work, refusing to acknowledge this new disturbance.

The disturbance, however, was persistent. He walked in front of her and sat at the other end of her table, parting her mountains of textbooks and smiling at the crimson heat rolling off her cheeks.

Finally, she had to look up. "What do you **want, **George?" she said tersely, brows knit.

George shook his head, tutting at her. "I only thought you might be hungry," he said honestly, placing a heaping plate between her parted books, "seeing as I haven't seen you in the Great Hall in about a year and a half."

Hermione blinked dumbly, her eyes watering from exhaustion and strain. "You…brought…?" she managed, mouth open in confusion.

"I, George! You, Hermione! This! Dinner!" he grunted, holding back a wicked grin. "Honestly, for as smart as you are…Eat, will you? And take a _break_ every once in a while, Merlin!" George ruffled his bright orange hair, yawning.

"Erm…thank you, I suppose," she replied sheepishly, watching him. _His hair is longer than it was this winter, _she thought, taking a still-hot roll from the plate and biting into it nervously. The warm bread made her realize how hungry she actually had been. Hermione wasn't certain of the logistics of eating and using the Time-Turner, but the more she thought about it, the hungrier it made her. Soon, she forgot the twin was even there as she ate ravenously. Two-thirds of the way through the plate, she seemed to remember. Through thick bites of food, she asked, "How did you get this?" suddenly hyperaware that he had probably broken several school rules to bring her dinner.

"Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies, Miss Granger," he said slyly, looking away from her. "What is it you Muggleborns say? Don't look at a pony's teeth when he brings you a hot plate of dinner?"

"It's _"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,""_ she grumbled into a chicken leg, deciding that it was better not to know.

George chortled. "Bit of a tosser thing to say, eh? Anyways, your gift pony's going upstairs, and he's taking _these _with him!" He stood, lifting half of Hermione's books off of the large wooden table. "Merlin's pants, how do you even carry all of these overgrown door sto-"

"No! George Weasley, put those down this _instant!"_ Hermione shrieked, standing to stop him. As she rose, the sheets of parchment that had been sitting in her lap fluttered to the floor, landing in a scattered heap. The table of Seventh Years was staring again. Blushing, she stammered, "Give them back, o-or…I'll…I'll tell Percy!"

"You wouldn't dare!" George said in a feminine voice, pressing his wrist to his forehead in feigned shock.

Hermione crossed her arms, looking sternly at George in his ridiculous pose. "I would. And I'm sure _he _wouldn't mind writing your mum, either."

Sighing, George stepped back towards her. "You're allergic to fun, aren't you, Granger? Here," he said flatly, holding out the stack of books and notes, "choose one bloody book. I'll write my mum myself, if you'd like, but if you don't get some actual rest any time soon, you'll start looking like the ghoul in my attic. You're only in your Third Year, and you've done more work this week than the rest of the school has since September. Everywhere Fred and I go, we see you studying. We skivved off Potions to go outside and saw you by the lake. Then we came back here to get our books for McGonagall's and you were at this bloody table, studying! I don't know how you're doing it, but you'll kill yourself if you don't give it a rest every once in a while."

She blushed, silent. George had said what she had been too busy to acknowledge. Hermione was completely wearing herself out with her course work. She'd thought about the numbers one night while falling asleep, and with all of the extra versions of herself going to classes and studying, she was awake for about 20 hours or more every day, and that number was growing as exams approached. Even with the roughly 6 hours of sleep she was getting a night, it wasn't enough to sustain her until the end of term. Not to mention how risky it was to use the Time-Turner several times over. And Merlin, George sounded like he could be close to figuring it out… "Why do you care?" she asked, more harshly than intended. "Why bring me dinner, why take my books from me?"

"Because I'm a decent person," he said, before adding an afterthought. "But mostly because you can't die. I need you to keep yelling at Ron for me. No one does it quite like you." He paused, then went on. "Besides, your ugly old cat ate Scabbers, and nobody but Ron liked him. Anyways, you've lost your chance to get a book back. Like I said, write my mum if you want. 'Night!" With that, George disappeared up the stairs to the dorm, Hermione's books in tow.

However hard she tried to keep working, Hermione only ended up distracted after he left. Sometimes it was over silly things: the thick rug tickling the length of leg between the hem of her skirt and the top of her sock, a bushy brown lock of hair falling in front of her tired eyes, the noise of First Years playing Gobstones in the corner. The majority of her preoccupations, though, centered on George. _It just doesn't add up, _she thought to herself, the Arithmancy homework spread out in front of her forgotten. _George is two years above me, why would he even notice me missing from meals? _She looked questioningly down at the near-empty plate on the table, half wondering if staring at the food scraps on a dirty plate was a proper method of Divination. _Divination's rubbish, though, _she reminded herself. _The only thing that's standing out on the plate is the orange bits of yam, anyways._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_I've randomly gotten the urge to write again, and this is apparently the result. Expect more of this one AND IJQR over the summer, along with (possibly) more!_


	5. The Fever Breaks

George was in a curious place.

Since his twin had died, he spent most of him time half-steeped in memories of the past, bitterly chasing the echoes of laughter through the darkness of his mind. He was used to that much. But the encounter with Hermione that morning has awoken in him a different beast. More often than not, Fred was absent from the memories George was lost in today.

It was a late night in the Gryffindor Common Room. No, it was a quiet, sunny day in the library. But how could it be that if it was a stolen afternoon in the Quidditch changing room? If he was gone from the Yule Ball for much longer, his friends would notice. That wasn't right, either, because it was certainly a crisp autumn morning in Hogsmeade...or a spring evening in the empty classroom in the Charms Corridor. His heart was pounding and he couldn't breathe properly. He tried to pull at the red and gold tie around his neck, to loosen it so he could get some air...but there was nothing there. Maybe he wouldn't be so hot if the thick, burgundy curtains around the bed were parted...but those weren't there, either.

She was so close he could almost taste her scent, like a spring bloom found pressed between the pages of a favorite old book. Even when she was freshly bathed, she smelled like books. Like her very skin was parchment, with ink flowing beneath it in place of blood. Like every word she read became a part of her. Like she'd transform into sentences on a page, if he didn't watch her carefully.

She was lying beside him, laughing the same way she always did when she couldn't stay mad at him. No, she was crying, and tears were tracing down her porcelain cheeks and onto the pillows. He was wrong again, though. She was asleep, frowning in concentration over some distant dream. Or she was angry at him, her cheeks red and her tone scolding. Wait...her cheeks were red, yes, but her eyes were softly focused, filled with girlish lust and begging him to kiss her again. He moved towards her, to hold her and never let go, like he should have to begin with. He brought his lips to hers, but she disappeared from his arms, leaving only a whisper of his name. Where she had been, he saw only rumpled sheets.

George sobbed her name until his stomach hurt, then he retched. The little he'd eaten that morning spilled out of him onto bed occupied a moment before by the spectre of his sorrows. The smell made him heave again, but his stomach was spent. He didn't move; he couldn't. The sick pooled under his face, but still he was paralyzed. In the back of his mind, he thought of cleaning the mess with magic, but he dismissed the idea before it had fully formed. His wand was lost in back in his own room, but it wouldn't have done him much better if he'd had it in his hand. His magic was rubbish, and he could no more levitate a scrap of parchment than look Hermione in the eyes and tell her in front of his whole family how much he still loved her.

Tears, stomach, mind and heart spent, George drifted in and out of fitful sleep.

He woke hours later with a clearer mind than he'd had in weeks. His nose and eyes stung from the rancid vomit he'd slept in, his body was sore, and his head was throbbing...but he rose anyways, and walked with great difficulty towards the bathroom. Fully clothed, he stepped mechanically into the shower and turned it on to its hottest setting, letting the steaming water wash away the haze of his lost months. There were a thousand things he knew he could hate himself for, these days, but he didn't even have the energy. The water was too hot to be comfortable, and his skin was turning red as a result. Whatever. He washed himself, still in his clothes, rubbing the bar of soap across his soaked shirt without noticing (or perhaps without caring). His mind wandered to the fever dreams he'd had earlier, and what Hermione had said before that to bring them on.

"I need her," he mumbled, rinsing the soap from his hair. "I _need_ her," he said determinedly, shutting off the water and peeling off the clothes that were sticking to his body and stepping out of the shower.

One almost-clean towel later, he was standing in his newly-cleaned room, hunting for his wand. He found three that Hermione had laid on the dresser, but with his magic working less than perfectly, it was anyone's guess as to which were his own clever fakes. He set all three down on the bed and decided to watch them carefully while he got dressed. Before he'd even found a clean shirt, one gave a loud "SQUOK!" and turned into a rubber chicken. When he was fully clothed, he picked up the wand that felt most like his and pointed it at the chicken. "Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered, moving his wand in accordance to the most basic spell he knew. The chicken wiggled on the bed, and in a puff of smoke the wand in his hand transformed into a very rudely shaped mass of bright purple rubber. He grinned in spite of himself, picked up his true wand, and rubbed his thumb over the polished dogwood. This time, a simple Switching Spell successfully attached the rude purple object to the chicken. It felt good to do magic, especially if the result was inappropriate.

He left his room, shutting the door behind him. Resisting the temptation to wander back into Fred's room, he shut that door as well. The fire in the living room was still burning, and the tiny pot of Floo powder had recently been refilled. He took a pinch and threw it in to the fire, before stepping hesitantly into the emerald flames. "Th-the Burrow!" he coughed out. It had been years since he'd travelled by Floo, and half-sneezing while describing your destination didn't help when you were already rusty. He cried out as his elbow knocked against some part of the chimney, and his eyes burned from soot.

It was in that condition-bruised, dirty, and with a scrape on his elbow-that he tumbled out of the fireplace at the Burrow and fell to his feet in front of Hermione Granger.

**A/N: **_Sorry for such a short one! I really wanted to do the whole thing from George's POV. Enjoy! And don't forget the inspirational power of a review! As a note: The next chapter (like the last one) will be from the past, but it will also be in George's perspective. Happy readings!_


	6. I Can't Explain

**A/N: **_Wow, this took a while. I apologize if things get a little crazy in the Fred/George dialogue, but I imagine them having quite the established rapport (including several made-up or half-made-up terms which I imagine would make it hard for outsiders to understand). I also apologize for this being so dreadfully SHORT, I just really wanted to get inside George's head and see his feelings growing uncomfortably in a way he doesn't understand. Again, I'm sorry if there are typos, I typed this whole chapter on my iPhone again. PS- this chapter takes place in March of 1994. Enjoy!_

He'd told Fred that he would stop by the library to get a book they needed for their next prank on his way back from Professor Binn's detention. While that was the truth, it wasn't the _entire_ truth. Yes, George did actually have a detention for taking off most of his clothes in class to see how long it would take the boring old ghost to notice (7 minutes after he got down to his skivvies). And yes, he and Fred did need a book or two on body-changing charms. But there was an ulterior motive to his volunteering to enter the library, and she was half asleep behind an impossibly large stack of books and papers.

He snuck up behind her, questioning his own sanity. He'd barely registered his youngest brother's friend until he'd heard her giving Ron and Harry (Harry bloody Potter!) a thorough tongue lashing for some thing or another last year. Fred had pointed it out, they'd laughed briefly, and moved on. Sometime before he and Fred had given Harry the Marauder's Map, he _really_ noticed her. George couldn't recall if it had been the way she'd kept cool under fire when Sirius Black attacked the Fat Lady, or how she'd thought to protect Harry's glasses during the disastrous Hufflepuff match, or maybe even before then for working impossibly hard to help Hagrid and Buckbeak long after her friends had forgotten their plight. Whenever it had happened, it was ridiculous, and it made him extremely uncomfortable. He'd freaking brought her _dinner _a few weeks ago, like they were married or something! He took a deep, trembling breath. He was close enough to smell her shampoo and his stomach was absolutely boiling as a result.

"What're you working on?" he half-whispered from behind her, peering at the copious notes spread all around her in an effort to keep his eyes off of her face.

Hermione gave a startled scream in response, causing Madam Pince to take five points from Gryffindor.

"Sorry," George winced, slipping into a seat across from her. "I didn't mean to frighten you. When was the last time you ate, Hermione? Here," he said all at once, cringing inwardly as he handed her a slightly smushed Cauldron Cake from a pocket in his robes.

"I can't eat that in here," she said very matter-of-factly, eyes trained on her paper, "and I'm extremely busy, so if you're just here to get another rise out of me I would suggest you pick a better time, but I can also promise you there won't be one until after the end of term. Goodbye, George." She went back to work.

He frowned, taking a deep breath to avoid word-vomiting again. "I'm not. I'm actually here for a reason. Actually," he smiled, an idea forming, "I could really use your help. Only for a moment, if you have the time? It's in the library, nothing against the rules. Weasley's honor."

She eyed him skeptically. "I don't. But..." he gave a ridiculous and dramatic pout that brought a small smile to her tired face. "Oh, bother. What is it?"

George grinned widely, expertly hiding the blush rising to his cheeks. "I need to find a book, believe it or not, and I happen to like you better than Madam Clamp–"

"Pince," she corrected absentmindedly.

"–Whatever. Will you help me?" he smiled earnestly, silently worried that he might be coming on a little strong.

If he was, Hermione's brain was too fried to recognize it. In fact, she seemed completely oblivious to his pink cheeks and hurried, nervous speech. "Sure," she accepted, speaking more towards a dirt-smudged Herbology essay than him. "What are you looking for, again?"

"I don't know if it's Transfiguration or Charms, but I need a book that'll teach me how to change body parts? Not Switching Spells or anything, something that'll make what you already have bigger or a different color, for example."

Hermione dropped her quill and looked up, her mouth open in shock. "George, that's _filthy!"_ she squeaked, trying not to raise her voice.

George's eyes bugged out and the color drained from his face. "No!" he said quickly, "Not that, not…not anything like that, honest, you're right, that's gross, that's…" he stammered weakly. "Forget it, I'm sorry I bothered you," he murmured, standing to leave. _I guess I've really blown it, now._

"Wait!" she stopped him, her voice tired. "What are you trying to do? I think I was just reading about something that might help…"

His heart lurched. "Really? Well, I dunno, Fred and I were thinking it'd be funny to invent a candy that made your head or your lips swell up ridiculously, when you ate it," he shared sheepishly.

She looked at him with serious eyes. "If I help you, you have to completely swear to me that you'll _never, ever_ give someone one of those candies without their direct and cogent consent."

"I wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Hermione." George's new plan of romantic action was to be as over-the-top as possible and hope that she only thought he was joking.

It appeared to work. Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed her chair away from the table. "You'd better not," she threatened. "I've heard your mother sends some pretty nasty Howlers."

Ten minutes later, George's Gryffindor tie was uncomfortably tight around his flushed neck. She was _right there, _ explaining different types of charms and incantations in greater detail than half his teachers could, not two feet from his face, and he was barely in control of himself. What he'd suspected about himself in the three weeks since he'd brought her dinner could no longer be argued: he definitely fancied her. He was so troubled by this revelation that he barely heard her when she asked if that was all he needed.

"...George? Are you alright? You look a bit—"

"I'm beyond brilliant, dear Hermione." The over-the-top approach certainly suited him. "My ickle mind is already running away with ideas courtesy of your invaluable assistance. I could almost kiss you, really, but I fear Old Lady Clamp would just about explode if that kind of conduct were to occur right under her crooked beak..."

True to her nature, Hermione blushed more at his rude representation of Madam Pince than his allusion to a kiss. "I have work to do," she snapped impatiently.

"Sure! Sorry! Thanks again, I appreciate it. Good luck, will you actually eat or sleep tonight? I guess I'll see you around!" Great. He was word-vomiting all over himself again.

She sat without answering, mind probably lost in whatever she was working on.

_I picked a good girl to be nervous about, _he reasoned with himself. _She doesn't even notice me making a complete arse of myself. _George took his spoils to be checked out and ducked out of the library without embarrassing himself any further.

"Well if it isn't Monsieur Slackless himself!" Fred called from a seat by the Common Room fire, "Come to grace your long-lost twin with a visit, have you?"

"About as long-lost as a troll's favorite arse mole, I reckon," George responded amicably, leaning on the arm of the chair his brother had chosen.

"I trust your tryst with a certain bookish bon-bon went—"

"I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're alluding t—"

"Well I have on good authority that you two were giggling and gaga-ing over each other like—"

"—Like a person more familiar with biblio-intricacies aiding an uninitiated?"

"If that's what you two are calling it," Fred winked, changing the subject. "Speaking of biblio-intricacies, did you happen upon what we needed in your ickle field of romantic dreams?"

George resisted the overwhelming urge to smack his twin with the stack of books in his hand. "We—,"

Fred's raised a ginger brow at George's use of the collective term, and he winked again when his brother blushed.

George rolled his eyes. "She directed me towards these wretched tomes after making me swear it wasn't for anything naughty—"

"Unless she was the sole benefactress, I'm sure."

He actually hit Fred that time. "Shut _up!_"

"Okay, okay!" Fred relented. "Can we get on with this wee project now?"

George scowled, adding, "I also swore we wouldn't do it to anyone without their consent...so our plan of testing it on the Slytherin Beaters is out, too."

Fred rolled his eyes and stood. "She's got your stones in an iron grip and you've not even properly snogged, mate. No matter, we've tested enough bizarre shit on ourselves that one more thing shouldn't kill us." He took half of the stack out of George's arms and bounded up the stairs to the boy's dorms.

George followed, increasingly more worried about the hole he was digging himself into with his twin and the object of his fancy.

**A/N: **_There it is! The next chapter should be pretty dramatic. Stay tuned!_


	7. The Prodigal Son

Hermione shrieked, leaping out of the armchair and pointing her wand threateningly at the mass in front of the fireplace, her war reflexes snapping back to her as if they'd never left.

The mass groaned and coughed, and Hermione stepped closer to discern who or what had landed in front of her.

"..Hrr..mi...ne..." it grumbled, stirring slightly.

"G-George? Merlin, is that you? What are you doing? How did you get here? Why on earth would you decide to up and Floo when you haven't so much as Vanished a spill in months? Are you hurt, are you alright?" The questions were flying out of her faster than either of them could process as she checked him for injuries, cleaning and healing his minor scrapes with expert wand work.

"Eurgh," George managed in response, wincing when she reached a particularly sooty abrasion.

"Did you need something? You could have just called, I wouldn't have dreamt of making you come all the way over-Unless you did so on purpose? Your mother will be thrilled! No one's in now, though, between work and social calls and I think Ron said something about going for a fly or some other," she continued, murmuring a mile-a-minute without meeting his eyes, trying to hide how wildly out of sorts his sudden appearance had made her feel. "You've really banged up your fa–" she reached to touch a scrape above his eye and stopped speaking when he winced.

"'Mione…please," he breathed, eyes shut in pain.

"Yes?" Hermione bit her lip, her face tense with worry.

"Worry..too much," George's face could have been a wince or a smile.

Her cheeks went pink with embarrassment. Only because you never worried enough, he could almost hear her say. "Bruises and scrapes aside, you don't seem to have terribly hurt yourself. I'll clean this mess up–"

"Let...let me try," George interrupted, sitting up and catching his breath. "Is there tea?" he asked weakly. He didn't particularly want tea, but that he'd rather Hermione not be watching if his magic failed.

Without a word she stood and walked purposefully towards the kitchen. Once she was out of sight, he drew his wand and attempted a couple marginally successful cleaning charms. One insistently stubborn soot pile had to actually be physically swept under the couch, but the rest was well enough clean and George was almost proud of himself before he remembered how pitiful of a thing it was to be proud of. He dusted himself off and sat on the couch he'd swept the soot under, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.

"I hope you still take it the way you u–Oh!" she exclaimed upon returning to where he was sitting, "Are you alright? Stupid me, I forgot to check if you were concussed. Are you feeling–"

He held a hand up to stop her. "Not concussed. Been concussed. This isn't it. I'm hungover, and I just took the Floo trip from hell," he explained, taking his tea from her.

"Why did you, if you don't mind my asking?"

He realized that his original plan—to arrive, dramatically tell her he loved her, and…had there been a third step?—was terribly ridiculous, but it wasn't exactly a situation he could explain himself out of. "I wanted to see if I could," he said simply. It wasn't entirely false.

Hermione nodded, staring at her hands. "Will you stay? I could Apparate you home if you'd like, but in your condition….and another Floo trip really seems ill-advised…Your family would be very glad to see you, I think."

"Are you glad to see me?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Her cheeks went pink. "I'm certainly glad you're using your magic again," she began before creasing her brow, "but you're so volatile now that I wish you'd at least told me, in case anything bad happened."

"Oh." He hadn't considered that in his foolhardy rush to recreate some sort of Muggle romance movie spectacle.

Before Hermione could respond, the door that led to the garden swung open. "Hey Hermione, mum and Gin ar—" Ron froze, paling behind his freckles. "G…George?"

George waved weakly and mumbled a hello, grateful when Hermione took over with her usual stubborn grace. "George's come for dinner," she explained, only a tinge of strain in her voice, "but the journey hit him harder than he's expected. I've just made some tea, you can have some if you'd like."

Ron flattened his slightly windblown hair. "Erm. I'm alright. I was just gonna let you know that Ginny ran back over from Luna's to say they're all going to shop for school stuff, but that Mum charmed dinner to start without her if she isn't back in time. I told her I didn't care, and she nearly hexed me off my broom," he explained sheepishly. "It's probably good about dinner though, Mum's gonna lose her gourd once she sees you," he nodded at George, who winced in reply.

"We'll just have to remind her not to overwhelm him," Hermione suggested, as if that was even possible. "Are you sure you don't want some tea?"

* * *

><p>"Should we have some sort of...strategy?" Ron asked, eyeing the carpet nervously.<p>

"Strategy is too harsh a word, I think. But it would be nice to have a sort of plan...If only an owl would get to them in time, we could at least send warning..." Hermione trailed off. "No chance Ginny still carries her DA Galleon, is there? No," she answered herself, "I remember she hung it up in her room..."

"Maybe I could Floo over to the Alley and let them know?" Ron suggested, turning the dregs of his tea over and over in his cup. "Ginny and I could probably physically restrain her if it got to that point..."

Tired of being spoken of like a Quidditch play instead of a living, breathing person in the room, George looked up from the biscuit he was crumbling on his plate. "You never want to give Mum enough time to plan a reaction," he said. "If there's one thing w—I learned about her as a kid," the correction was only noticeable if they were listening for it, which of course they were, but no one acknowledged it, "it's that you want to blindside her whenever possible. Don't let her build up momentum. Remember Bill and Fleur's wedding?" he asked pointedly.

Ron snorted in agreement. "Is that how you got away with so much?" He stood up, setting his teacup down on the side table. "He's right, though. Don't give her a chance to be melodramatic. Lemme know when the clock says she's coming home, I'll stop her at the gates and tell her." He stretched, yawned, and ambled up the stairs, presumably for a shower.

Two hours later, the three of them were spread across the living room without words. Ron was laying on the carpet tossing a quaffle up and catching it, stopping only when his hands slipped and the red leather ball bounced off his face. Hermione was back in her chair, pretending to read the book she'd had out before George arrived, but was mostly frowning at the open pages. On the sofa, George looked from Hermione to Ron and back again, doing what he could to brace himself for what was coming. Moments after the whole kitchen began to bustle itself around preparing the family dinner, the Ginny and Molly hands on the clock moved to "Travelling" with a quick "ding!" and Ron leapt up off the floor. "Here goes," he said quietly, quickly trotting out the front door.

Not even a minute later, the door flew open with a loud "BANG!" and Mrs. Weasley came hurtling in, Ginny close behind. "George! Georgie, is it true?" she called, voice taut with worry.

Ron came stumbling inside, wheezing. "She hexed me flat to the ground! I did what I could..."

But no one heard him. Mrs. Weasley, in her excitement, was currently crushing George against her bosom and explaining with tears in her eyes how she needed to make more food, how she wished she'd cleaned the house more, and how happy she was to see him.

Dinner was extravagant, a feast like he hadn't had in years. George's mother, as well as the rest of his family, seemed to have trouble deciding whether to give him space or climb up his nose, and to his regret they mostly seemed to be settled on making a permanent residence among his snot. Half the table jumped up when he asked for an extra roll, but no one looked him in the eyes when he requested more turkey. Blessedly, Harry began chatting idly about Ministry business part of the way through the meal, which distracted Percy—the only one at the table who looked more uncomfortable than George—and slowly the rest of the family joined in. Hermione gave him what he guessed was supposed to be an encouraging smile, but it came across as more of a tight grimace.

After the meal, he conceded to stay the night, and then after that conceded to stay in his old room instead of on the sofa. He was more than a little surprised to learn that that was where Hermione had been staying since the end of the War, but Ginny offered to let Hermione stay in her room for as long as George would stay before he could say anything about it. Suddenly, the house was a rush of activity. Linens were being changed, beds were being transfigured from throw pillows and charmed into appropriate sizes, and everyone whose hands were idle were left to clean up dinner. George stood awkwardly in the center of it all until it was over, when his mother handed him a too-short pair of pajama bottoms and a too-big shirt on top of blankets to sleep in. "Here you go, dearie," she said, eyes still slightly watery as they'd been all night. "Get some rest, mummy loves you." And for the first time since before he'd left for Hogwarts, he didn't roll his eyes or ignore her. "You, too, mum. See you at breakfast."


End file.
